


The New Apprentice

by HaleHole (SweetFanfics)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Royalty, First Meetings, Gen, M/M, Magic, Pre-Slash, Royalty, Werewolves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-18
Updated: 2013-10-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 18:48:47
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,328
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1008807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SweetFanfics/pseuds/HaleHole
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There have been several rumors about Lord Deaton’s new apprentices - that they are clever, sharp, ruthless, merciful. In all honesty, Derek doesn’t know what to believe of the rumors considering how many of them conflict with one another. He prefers to form his own opinion.</p><p>But he *had* been expecting a man. Not this boy who is walking into his study with wide, curious eyes that are flitting over from one object to another like a hummingbird in spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The New Apprentice

**Author's Note:**

> Kimberly (Tigrislupa): Medieval AU?
> 
> Kimberly (Tigrislupa): Prince Derek?
> 
> Kimberly (Tigrislupa): And Stiles is the sorcerer’s apprentice?
> 
> meeya: oooo
> 
> meeya: OH

A rather loud crash pulls Derek away from the treaty that is laid out on his table. He looks up towards the opening doors, already frowning as he wonders who crashed into what. The guard steps forward, expression as blank and neutral as ever as he announces, “Sir. The man that you had been waiting for has arrived.”  
  


Derek leans back into his chair, “Send him in.”  
  


The guard bows, stepping forward to make room for the person standing behind him. What Derek sees is not what he had been expecting. There have been several rumors about Lord Deaton’s new apprentices - that they are clever, sharp, ruthless, merciful. In all honesty, Derek doesn’t know what to believe of the rumors considering how many of them conflict with one another. He prefers to form his own opinion.  
  


But he **had** been expecting a man. Not this _boy_ who is walking into his study with wide, curious eyes that are flitting over from one object to another like a hummingbird in spring. With his dark hair and fae looks, Derek wonders if perhaps the boy is more than just touched by magic like most practitioners. Perhaps he has magic in his blood.  
  


He watches the boy bow, raising an eyebrow when he nearly clocks himself on the decorative globe placed on the edge of the table. “Your Highness.” His voice is also boyish, telling Derek that there’s no way that this apprentice is even past his 18th summer.   
  


Derek waves a hand at the guard, signalling for him to leave them. After the door is closed, he leans forward to rest his elbows on the table. And he stares directly at the boy before asking, “Do you know why you are here?”  
  


Warm brown eyes hold his gaze, no sign of disrespect or fear in them. “Lord Deaton said that there was a position to be filled in your royal court.” There is a very slight movement underneath the boy’s dark robes, the material parting just enough for Derek to catch sight of long, pale fingers twisting together nervously.  
  


He nods, linking his fingers before dropping them down on the warm wood. “That is true. I need someone who is well versed in magic. Someone who I can trust.” Because he certainly doesn’t trust his uncle. Derek feels that he stands a better chance of survival if he places his trust in a stranger referred to him by an old family friend than his own uncle.  
  


Derek is surprised when the boy smiles at him, as though he’s amused by what Derek has said. “I will do my best to live up to your expectations, Prince Derek.”  
  


And on the subject of which. “I must be honest with you.” Derek starts, hearing his mother’s gentle voice in his head telling him that honesty is always the best policy. “You are not what I was expecting.”  
  


The boy chuckles, quiet and warm, a hand coming out of its hiding place to run through his already dishevelled hair. “I’m afraid I hear that all too often, Your Highness.” The wry amusement slips away like water through fingers, replaced with a confidence that makes Derek quirk an eyebrow. “However, I am more than qualified to be on my own.”  
  


It’s on the tip of his tongue to say, ‘We’ll see’ but Derek bites down on the urge. “What is your name?” Derek asks in its stead.  
  


"Stiles, Your Highness." The unusual name makes his second eyebrow rise as well.  
  


Derek rolls his eyes, irritated by how many times the title has been dropped in their conversation. “Prince Derek will do, or Prince or Sir. No need to keep referring to me as ‘Your Highness’.”  
  


Stiles bows his head, murmuring, “Yes, Sir.” When he looks back up, there’s that amused twinkle in his eyes again when he asks, “I suppose it gets tiring to keep hearing the same title over and over again.”  
  


Derek makes a mental note to write to Lord Deaton and ask him whether or not the inability to keep himself in check is a regular habit Stiles indulges in or not. “Something like that.” Derek replies, turning his attention back to the treaty. It’s the third time that the Argents have sent it back, citing poor terms and adding on more conditions. Derek’s ready to throw the damned thing into the fireplace and be done with it.  
  


He expects Stiles to understand that he’s dismissed. Which is why he is taken aback when he hears the swish of heavy cloth against stone come closer to him instead of away. Looking up, he sees Stiles frowning down at him. Or at his sleeves to be precise. “Does that always happen?” Stiles asks, nodding down at the ink staining the white sleeves before hastily tacking on a “Sir” to the end.  
  


Derek eyes the multiple stains, rubs his blue fingertips together in a resigned manner before shrugging. “Anytime I come into contact with ink.” It’s a hazard that probably drives the washing ladies up the wall.   
  


Stiles hums, hands reaching out towards his arm. A warning growl rises up his throat. The sound of it makes Stiles pause and peer at him with a gaze that is so gently asking for his trust that the noise dies away of its own accord. “May I?” Stiles asks.  
  


With a dumb nod, Derek allows the boy to take hold of his wrist. Lets him turn it left and right before he presses both of his hands firmly around his sleeves. Derek is ready to ask what Stiles is doing when he feels a cold chill whisper past his neck. He shivers, head turning to check if a breeze is blowing outside. But the curtains remain their stoic selves, standing stiff and bored much as they have been all week.  
  


A twin chill brushes around the back of his knuckles, turning his attention back towards Stiles. Derek is surprised when he sees a faint glow peeking through the apprentices’ hands, glowing brighter when Stiles opens his eyes and sucks in a quick breath.  
  


In the blink of an eye, the glow recedes into nothing, leaving Derek to stare in confusion at his shirt. There is a pleasant tingling sensation spreading up his arm, centered around Stiles’s loosening grip. Derek momentarily forgets about the feeling when notices that the stains dotting his right sleeve have disappeared!   
  


Derek rubs his hands curiously over the now white material, wondering what Stiles has done. The teenager seems to anticipate his question and laughs. “I learnt that trick a while ago. It also works on chalk, grass stains and chocolate.” The last one makes Derek frown in surprise. It makes Stiles’ smile falter. “I hope it was alright? I wasn’t out of line was I?”  
  


The worried look that is being directed his way makes Derek shake his head immediately. “No, no. Thank you. I appreciate it.” There’s a loud knock on the door, making them both start slightly.   
  


The guard from before holds the door open for the tall dark skinned man walking in. His armor gleams in the well lit room, showing off the pale wolf etched into the metal. “Prince Derek.” The man bows, short and crisp before standing straight. “We’re ready for you.”  
  


Derek nods, standing up as he does so. “Thank you Boyd. I will be down shortly.” Boyd presses a fist up to his chest, bows once more and just as briskly walks out of the room. Derek doesn’t watch him go. Instead, he turns to Stiles. “I’ll ask one of the guards to show you to your chambers. Do you need any help with your luggage and such?”  
  


Stiles shakes his head, eyes glittering whiskey dark as the light catches. "I just have one bag. I can manage." He pauses a moment before he continues in a softer voice and a grateful look. "Thank you."  
  


He nods and steps out of the room.


End file.
